


Missing Colors

by Crypticus



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Fluff, I can’t believe I’m writing this what, It’s after 4 in the morning why am I up, M/M, Noirham - Freeform, hamnoir - Freeform, why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 19:31:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17392331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crypticus/pseuds/Crypticus
Summary: Ham is left ‘stranded’ in Noir’s universe, and it’s slowly ripping him apart by the seams. Noir is relatively quick to come to the pig’s aid. [Or alternatively — Ham and Noir will always be there for each other, through the thick ‘n thin.]





	Missing Colors

**Author's Note:**

> . . . . . . This idea refused to leave my brain ever since I finished Red-Stained Hands lol. Why am I even— (enjoyandIappologizeiftheyseemoutofcharacteroriftheresanytypos)

 Ham was panicking, this much he knew. The question was, how did he stop it? Granted that’s under the _assumption_ that Ham could, given the swine’s current state. The fact that this panic stemmed from what presented itself around Ham, didn’t help either.

 The panic he felt— it absolutely tore at the swine. It raged almost nonstop throughout his entire body, infiltrating his mind to wreak havoc. Wherever this panic went, a trail of fire was left in its wake. It kept the cartoon hero up at night, unable to do anything other than stare up at a grey ceiling and try to breath; something that was proving to be difficult as of late for Ham, when every breath he takes stings as the invisible, stone-cold grip on the the swine’s heart tightens. And of course, that darn grey ceiling Ham stares up at every night only worsens things... Because it’s just _that_! _Grey_ , like almost everything else in the dimension Ham wished he could leave. The only other ‘colors’ that graced this world were black, white, and red.

 The first two, a part of Ham immediately regrets referring to as ‘colors’ when they only seem to bring him misery and pain. And red, oh Ham would have been ecstatic... But that red, the red that managed to bleed through a world of shadows... It somehow wasn’t red. Well, at the very least, it wasn’t the red that Ham was used to. His ‘red’ meant warmth and safety... Love and care -cliche as that may sound-.

 However the red Ham had been seeing as of lately — it was much more sinister, for lack of better wording. This red smelled of iron, the sticky warmth and meaning behind it rubbed Ham the wrong way. The swine honestly couldn’t help but feel insulted that this new red was even called ‘red’ in the first place.

 This crude, utterly offending, and downright _pathetic_ imitation of red shouldn’t even exist in the first place! From Ham’s experiences with it, this red thrived off the pain and bitterness spawned from chaos — it never failed to distress the swine.

 Ham’s lost track of how many times, at the end of each ‘day’ that he retires to the small, old bathroom connected to the room he currently inhabits; where the swine then proceeds to spend a disturbingly long amount of time with the water running — desperately wishing he can wash the red off him.

 “ _Shit_ –“ the curse slips right out of the swine’s snout with no problem at a sharp stinging-like sensation. Ham can’t help the dry amusement he feels, despite the pain. The lack of censorship in his speech would have one of the few, if not only, ‘perks’ Ham has experienced lately. 

 At the amusement Ham feels, even if minuscule, he can’t help but feel just a tiny bit better — so obviously, it must be disposed of. How? In the form of that blasted pain in Ham’s chest.

 The sudden spikes are sporadic, though it still leaves the hero curled into something similar to that of the fetal position upon a barely-functioning, poor excuse of a bed. Ham’s hands are clenched, one over the other and held close to his chest. He tries to hold his breath, but the swine can only still his breath for so long before a familiar, dizziness-induced haze clouds his ravaged mind. It’s presence serving as a warning, which convinces Ham that he– he _needs_ _**oxygen**_.

 So he’ll exhale, then inhale air in an almost greedy-like fashion. He feels relief for a moment, and then utter pain. His heart seems to convulse weakly under the invisible pressure put on it.

 Dear lord it **_hurts_** — it **_hurts_** so much! Ham wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants to fight the pain, to do _something_ that _isn’t_ writhing both physically and mentally at the pain he’s enduring.

 “Ham?” It’s said so softly, the pig almost doesn’t hear it. But he does, and he chokes out a hardly convincing attempt at reassuring the man he knows is talking to him — because he hears it, Ham hears the concern and worry and sweet, dizziness-inducing (in a good way) tenderness behind the one-worded question comprised of literally just the swine’s name. The lack of response to his own pathetic attempt at reassurance further deepens the pain, but this time said pain-increase is brought along by guilt and shame and—

 Ham can’t think of anything else, because suddenly he’s engulfed in a soft warmth. He doesn’t say anything, only burying deeper into the embrace — attempting to and only partly succeeding in shoving away the shame he feels. “I–“ Ham tries to speak, but the same voice he knows all too well interrupts him.

 “Don’t. You have absolutely no reason at all, to be sorry.” Those words are spoken with conviction and understanding. Now Ham really has to gather what’s left of his strength, to not cry.

* * *

 

 _Something was wrong— **terribly** wrong_. The statement had circulated around Noir’s mind ever since he’d left the dingy ‘apartment’ earlier that day.

 Well, perhaps that was a lie. The thought had been clinging to Noir’s brain for the past couple days, but today it had been... **Exceptionally** more aggressive in making sure Noir was aware of its presence. At first it'd been annoying but—

  _Now_ , in this very moment, Noir is extremely grateful for how the thought seemed to fight wildly to remain at the forefront of his mind. The detective just wished he’d been more quick to act. Opening the door to see a distressed Ham, curled into the fetal position had most certainly kicked his want to protect, and comfort into overdrive — but it was color, or more appropriately the lack of (almost) color of his.. Friend, that had Noir moving to hold him so quickly.

 There had been a surge of terror that crashed through the detective’s mind, at seeing someone of vivid colors that he cared for in such a state of utter distress— the shade of a truly gorgeous red (so unlike the bitter red of his universe) and blue seemed to melt, either fading to a paler shade or being replaced by white. And then there was that other color, which dominated Ham’s face. It was similar to red, but much lighter, more soft with a sort of sweetness to it.

 Sudden movement in his arms interrupts the detective that’d been lost in thought. He glances down, and just barely succeeds in holding back a load of utter rubbish on the spot. A pair of eyes are staring right at him. It’s almost like blue, yet somehow so much more. It’s brighter, clearer, sweeter, but Noir can’t think of a color — so he’ll settle for the description ‘vivid blue’... For now.

 “Peter?” Those same eyes are staring up at him, in worry...? Noir’s feelings of warmth and care and so on for Ham are in full swing by now. The detective had just discovered the swine curled up in pain, his vibrant colors seeming to be washed away — yet here Ham was, giving Noir that concerned look. “Petey, you– ... You alright?” Noir takes note of the extended pause in Ham’s speech. 

 “I should be asking you that,” the detective wants to say more. He should say more, but oddly enough — Noir can’t. Though it seems Ham can hear what else the man wants to say, going by the soft look of gratitude that flashes across his face.

 “I could... Could be doing better.” He admits, almost sheepishly despite the severity of the situation. The tiniest frown overtakes his face. Noir is silent, but within that silence is an offer provided after a moment of hesitation — it’s asked non-verbally.

 The detective’s surprised, but honored when Ham accepts. Everything, all of the swine’s struggles that he’s been dealing with lately come spilling out with no end in sight. Noir doesn’t interject once, instead remaining silent as Ham vents.

 The pig talks about the pain in his chest, and the desire he tried to hide from a Noir. Ham then goes on to talk about the dreariness of this world that Noir lives in, He talks about the color -or the lack of, in all honesty.- It doesn’t end there, because then Ham starts talking about his own home. The longing in the swine’s voice tugs at Noir’s chest, because he understood almost perfectly what Ham meant. His world remained drenched in black, white, grey, and the occasional splash of a bitter red — Noir always looked forward to the regular meet ups with his fellow spiderlings, just as he always regretted each and every time he’d step through the portal and be transported back to his own dimension. Back to a place that didn’t feel so much like home.

 Ham obviously suffered from the yearning, the desire to leave this place. Noir didn’t blame him one bit. At least the detective had something to remind him of a vibrant, better world; a simple yet mesmerizing Rubik’s Cube from Miles’ universe, along with buckets of— ... _That’s it!_

 Noir doesn’t think, he just acts. Still holding a now-puzzled Ham who eyes the detective in confusion and curiosity, Noir exits the room they’re currently in and makes a beeline for his own room. Out of habit, Noir removes his mask once entering — the detective is careful when settings Ham down on the desk that’s shoved into the corner of his room. Stationed at the edge of the table is a Rubik’s Cube, solved.

 Noir tries to ignore the sudden lost of a comfortable warmth, he only just realized when it was lost, and Ham can’t help but deflate ever so slightly when Noir let’s go of him. However this lasts not too long, for Ham realizes that Noir has his mask of and... _Wow_.

 The sound of said man letting out a slight cough snaps Ham out of his thoughts. The swine can hear his own heart beating, quite loudly, and there’s a strong warmth that originates from his face.

 “Ham?” Noir peers down at the pig, confused as to why he’s being given such an... Odd look. Ham blinks, shaking his head before returning the detective’s stare. When Noir gestures to Ham’s right, the pig turns. Noir hears the sharp intake of breath, and fails to hide a small smile at the stunned look on Ham’s face.

 “Ah, Peter..” the pig sounds like he’s about to cry, Noir’s smile fades slightly as he crouches to be at eye-level with Ham. “Is this—“ his voice is shaky, and Ham pauses to breathe. “I’m— touched, Petey. Really.” Ham is quick to speak, when he catches onto the concerned expression Noir carries. And it’s the truth! Next to Ham were buckets of paint, which means  _color_.

 Ham doesn’t know how he can ever repay Noir for this, but nevertheless he makes a silent promise that he **will**.

 “I– I don’t mean this to be as a replacement for you’re dimension. I promise you, you’ll be able to return back home. But– if you ever find yourself missing the vivid colors of your own dimension... You’re free to use this paint.” Noir explains, seeming to sound at least slightly anxious. He offers a small smile to match.

 “It’s perfect, Peter,” Ham can’t hide the joy that coats those three words he speaks. Even if the swine could, Ham ultimately concludes that he likely wouldn’t when Noir’s smile seems to grow ever so slightly. And the detective’s eyes? It could have just been his imagination, but Ham swore there was something different about them. Noir’s eyes almost seemed to glow, and Ham swears he saw a hint of warm, golden-brown.

* * *

 

 It's much later, that Ham realizes something.

 He had been simply staring up at Noir, who had fallen asleep after much pushing from Ham. The detective in black and white looked so peaceful—

 A small smile had found its way on the swine’s face, and that’s when it hit him. Perhaps he’d been wrong, in thinking that the colors black and white only brought misery and pain..? Ham’s snapped out from his thoughts when a pair of arms wraps around him, and the pig blinks in pleasant surprise — he studies the face in front of him, taking note of every little detail that made Noir... Well, Noir.

 “ _Ham_.” It’s but a mere mumble, sounding slurred because Noir is talking in his _sleep_ and _that_ makes it all the more endearing. Ham feels his face flush with warmth.

 Scratch what Ham thought earlier. In this moment — Ham didn’t _think_  he may have been wrong, he  _knew_ he'd been wrong—  ** _dead wrong_** __.

**Author's Note:**

> Legit the lAsT one I swEaR— snort lmao.


End file.
